Friday, May 13, 2011

For all your pretty talk, your heart tends to wander.You're always ditching some sweet life in D.C.,or Las Vegas, or San Diego, and trickling off to a grubby triple-homicidein a part of the world nobody wants to see.

Nice memories of all the heres and theres:sunsets made of bourbon, wavescrashing against the winter midnight,fists of rusty mountains knucklinginto some good Western sky—

And the girls, too, passing like cirrus cloudsor sometimes faster, like a pack of smokes at a concert,great, transitory, and then you stagger into lovewith something else again sort of likea honky-tonk piano rattling intoa surprise new key,

well,you never want much, do you?But when you do want,god keep you and your crazy guitar heart, because that thickstupid intensity you getis both your best and worst quality, brother.It fills your whole world up with wantingand scares the shit out of the kids.

But headlong into the chaos is sort of how you got here,or there, or anywhere, really--you travel enough and eventually everythingis made of gold with this sun falling over it,your world of insane magic disasters and strange mensitting on porches, eyes glancing off the sunset,saying Son, have you ever played the piano?And their light will turn to silk and ribbon andhome is everywhere and new again.